Wisps of Silver and Gray
by Alisha6
Summary: Death is a funny, fickle, strange and difficult concept to grasp. The state of permanent unrest is a hard concept for anyone to grasp, including level-headed Hermione. When her best friend Harry Potter is killed, Hermione deals with Death, Time, Lust, and
1. Prolouge

Wisps of Silver and Gray 

Prologue 

Hermione sat cross-legged in a chair on her veranda. She sat overlooking the Mediterranean, a cigarette in hand. Her was mind clear. She wore a tattered skirt that gently brushed against cold brick floor of the veranda. The soft sea breeze blew past her, causing her cheeks to slightly flush, and her hair to somewhat flutter in the wind. She took a long silent drag off the cigarette, as her mind began to drift. 

Three months had passed since she first arrived at the small seaside villa in Greece. She had spent three quiet, pristine, and calming months alone. Only her thoughts, her books, and her mind had accompanied her. However, like usual time had ceased being her friend. Time did what it did best, it moved on, it plowed ahead, no destination in mind, it quickened. The day of her departure had arrived. Hermione looked down at her forearms, they were slightly sun kissed. She had spent almost every afternoon, book in hand, cigarette in the other, just reading book after book. Other days, she'd fish though old albums, old pictures, and old memories.

Yes, she had to admit; time had become her least favorite aspect of life. She always used to be an optimistic person, but not anymore. Time had taken it away from her. Time had reared her ugly head, as the second hand moved forward with each agonizing tick. She _hated _it. With each tick, the further Harry grew away from her. Yes, time, she hated it. Hermione could feel a slight smile coming on as she thought of all the memories she had drudged up from deep within her soul during her stay. She could hear heavy-footed footsteps in the villa behind her, they belonged to a man, and tiny little bumps, they belonged to a child.

Perhaps, even more than she hated time for separating Harry from her, forever. She hated death, for existing. For happening, for the hurt it caused, and for happening to her and causing her to hurt.  Death had grasped his cold fist around Harry that night, and she hated Death for it. From behind her, she heard a loud joyous laugh. It was deep and it shook the world in all its happiness. Hermione could hear a sweet soft and high pitch giggle merge with the deep-throated laughter. Hermione, however, kept her eyes on the seashore. The waves were crashing against the empty beach

Hermione sighed, even more than death, she hated herself; for being dumb, for being selfish, for losing all her feelings, and all her love when Harry died. She hated herself even more for reaching out blindly for the nearest person possible for comfort, and for betraying her husband.

Hermione, even after two years of marriage, she remained clueless on _why_ she married whom she had. At first, it felt right; it felt like love. However, as time passed, she soon grew to realize he married her out of pity. You could even say he married her out of hurt; this was his way of clinging on to the past, of clinging on to Harry. Hermione knew her relationship was loveless, but it was comfortable. It took her mind off her problems; it took her mind of her mistake.

The chestnut-haired witch took another puff off her cigarette.  Smoking was a bad habit she had picked up from an old Muggle friend. She thought again of the reasons she had married her best friend. Was she blinded by grief? Was she even aware of what she was doing? She needed a support system; she couldn't afford to live with the consequences of her mistake alone. So she hid it, she married Ron Weasley, and she shut up about it. She tried not to think about it, but she saw him on a daily basis. She couldn't avoid his questioning cold gray eyes. She remembered forcing herself to attend all the functions him and his wife would have the nerve to invite Ron and her too, her girdle slowly growing in size as the months passed

She often wished she could close her eyes one night, and wake up at dawn, rejuvenated, with Harry, the symbol of her shame gone. However, as usual time paid its sweet revenge. She hated time, for leaving her with a burden of love. She hated death, for causing her to grief so hard and so blindly. She hated herself for falling, and she hated _him. _With his long blonde hair, soft pale skin, sweet pink lips, and cold conniving heart; a heart incapable of love, or of honesty. A heart only capable to cause pain, and pain is what it caused in her. Hermione took one final drag off her cigarette, before casually flicking it off the side of the terrace. From behind her, she could feel the footsteps drawing closer, and the sliding glass door open.

"Hermione," the voice called, Hermione kept her head down; she still was not ready to leave, "it's time to go."  

She sighed, resting her head in her hands, afraid to face Ron, afraid to leave. She heard that familiar sweet giggle, and little footsteps run towards her. Hermione's face quickly spread into a wholehearted genuine smile as she laid eyes on the small toddler before her. She reached out for her mother with a sweet sticky hand, and she took it. 

"Hannah!" Hermione smiled, in a slight baby tone, pulling the eighteen month old into her lap. The toddler seemed to make everything right again. She almost forgot her hate for time, for death, for herself, and for him, especially for him. She couldn't deny that she saw him in her own child. Her mouth even moved in the same fashion as his. On top of her head was a sweet mop of light blonde hair shining brightly: and the shine matched that in her eyes. Her eyes, is what Hermione fell in love with first. They were brown, but within them were sweet circular wisps of silver and gray, wisps of him, wisps of her true father.  She stared down at her child for what seemed like an eternity, before turning to Ron.  

"I'm ready," Hermione whispered to Ron softly. He gave her should a slight reassuring squeeze, Hermione assumed his eyes were scanning that amazing seashore for the final time. She sighed to herself, her child in her lap, her husband standing behind her supportively, as her hate was replaced with love.


	2. Part One Chapter One

b

Wisps of Silver and Gray

**Part One**

**Present Day**

**/b**

Hermione kicked a worn boot into the dirt surrounding the cross. The sole white cross resided alone by an empty train track crossing on a lonely British county side road. This is where her woes seemingly all began for her.

She knelt down, the wind causing her eyes to slightly water. She reached out for the cross with trembling fingers. She sighed to herself as she ran her fingers up and down the worn white wood of the cross. She still was unsure of who put it there, for the period that the cross was a reminder of, was nothing but a painful blur in her memories.

On each of the three points of the cross, resided a letter. The letters were if not crudely, tackily, even roughly chiseled into the whitewashed wood. On the point furthest to the left, was an H. On the one pointing up, resided a J. The, on the one pointing right, there was a P. Hermione turned around as Hannah came bumbling towards her, the front of her jumper was dirty, and her little white shoes were covered in grass stains. The little girl let out a small giggle before grabbing onto her mother's tank top. Hermione smiled, before swooping the child into her arms, placing a kiss on the pale skin of her forehead.

Hermione fought back her tears as she took in the bittersweetness of the moment. For the cross represented more than just an accident site. It symbolized a death, a death that provoked a change, and a change that provoked a lustful relationship. The death led to a relationship that led to a birth, which led to Hannah.

No, this was not just a place of death. It was a place of birth, of new life, of rejuvenation.

**b**

**Two Years and Six Months Earlier**

/b

At the end, there came a flash of light. Two bright white lights reflecting off the clear lenses of his black oval shaped glasses. His mouth wide in horror, and all he could think about was her.

He had been driving that night. His was mind reeling, angry with himself for his own stupid mistake. He shouldn't have said anything; he should have just kept his mouth shut. Nevertheless, he hadn't, and now she was upset with him. His hand drifted over to the large bouquet of flowers at his side. He really loved her.

His eyes drifted up to his rearview mirror, but he saw nothing. It was another starless night in the British countryside. He had to get home to her, his foot pressed down slightly on the accelerator, as he approached the railroad crossing.

Oh, the railroad crossing. He had crossed it so many times before in his tiny ancient vehicle. He was in such a hurry; he ignored the cars' cries out for him to slow down, to look down at the I_Check Engine/I _light, to apply the brake, to slow to a stop.

He had shouted at her. He had screamed at her to quit her job at the Daily Prophet, he couldn't tell her why, he could only tell her what he wanted. What he wanted, what _he _wanted? He shook his head, smacking himself forcefully across his forehead for being so selfish. She loved her job, and that's what should have been important. Why had he opened his mouth and said something? Why couldn't he just have shut his mouth? If he really loved her, he would of.

The car slightly rattled as he jerked the wheel to the left, avoiding a large pothole in the slightly dank and dilapidated cobblestone of the road. However, the tires did not respond, Harry panicked, slamming his foot unto the breaks. His mind was spinning now; he had to get back to Hermione. The small blue car began to spin, round and round, neither beginning nor an end in sight. He took a deep breath, gripping his hand around the wheel as the car continued to spin out of control, why couldn't he had just shut his mouth. He loved her, so why didn't he?

The car finally slowed to a spot with a loud creak. With an ear splitting screech, and a loud thud, the engine died. Harry moaned to himself, as he reached for the key, struggling to restart the car again. He was miles away from home, he didn't have his wand, and he did not have the energy or the willpower to walk home. The slight gurgling sound of the start almost seemed to drown out the loud screeching whistle of the oncoming train.

"Come on," Harry muttered to the car, attempting to coax it out of his state of permanent rest. He had to return home to Hermione, to apologize, to hold her, to make things right. He loved her; he had to fix his mistake. "Come on!" Harry snapped again, but the engine continued to gurgle in protest. In the near distance, a loud honking sound filled Harry's ears. His eyes widened as he looked up, the car had died on the train tracks, and just his luck, a train was coming. The crossing lights and bells went off, as the gates attempted to come down, however it was unsuccessful, for one of them came down on the hood of Harry's junker.

"Come on!" Harry cried at the sleeping beast. A strange gurgling sound soon began pouring out of his mouth and the car's engine simultaneously; he was beginning to panic. Harry glanced back up at the train for it was only seconds away. Harry quickly, almost instinctively, reached for his seatbelt, but it was stuck. He was trapped, the seatbelt almost serving as his chains; it attached him to the stalled car on the tracks. He shook his head in frustration as the train drew closer. Why didn't he have his I_wand/I_? His heart cried, I_why/I!_ He had to get back to her. He just had to.

A loud scrapping noise, the loud shrill sound of metal being dragged against metal, and a scream broke through the calm night's quiet.

At his end, there came a flash of light. Two bright white lights reflecting off the clear lenses of his black oval shaped glasses. His mouth wide in horror, and all he could think about, was her. Just I_her/I_.

Hermione didn't cry, well not in the first few days at least. She almost felt like she couldn't. She was too taken aback by the incident. It was too surreal, almost supernatural. He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Who, as only a mere child, survived one of the deadliest curses known to wizarding kind, cast by one of the deadliest sorcerers of all time. Who, as barely an adult, survived almost every confrontation against his foes, to be taken out of the world by a Muggle train, I_Harry Potter/I_? The whole idea of Harry being dead seemed to throw her world into a strange state of suspended animation. She was living in a world where nothing made sense; her life without Harry made no sense.

However, just because she didn't cry, didn't mean she never was compelled too. The Muggle police officers had come to the door that clear starless night. There were two of them. Hermione could still remember their strange silhouettes on her doorstep as she peaked out the window, curious why a Muggle would be standing on the doorstep of her quaint cottage so late in the night. She could remember their faces clearly. One of them was tall, almost gawky, with a large bulbous shaped head, and a pencil thin moustache. The other was short and stout, with a rather small head, and wearing a rather stoic expression on his face.

"There's been an accident." Their words seemed to reverberate through the cavernous confines of Hermione's mind.  She slowly let the words register, the true horror of the awful words, I_Harry's dead/I. _She couldn't cry, even if she wanted to, for the tears would not come.

The police officers took her to the station the next day. I_Protocol/I, _they called it. Hermione called it pure torture. A small freckled face woman, with long blonde hair led her to a small room, the morgue. I_Protocol/I_, they called it. It was protocol for an accident victim to be identified. Protocol. The room was drastically cooler than the quaint police station was, and the room was flanked with stainless steel cabinets. Hermione closed her eyes, feeling a cold numbness washing over her. Harry was in one of these, lying in the cold, dead.

The women led her past the uniform stainless steel cabinets before finally stopping abruptly in front of a table. Hermione could feel her heart catch in her throat as her eyes skimmed over all of the items. Resting on a table was a bloody blue sweatshirt that Hermione immediately recognized as Harry's. Beside it lay a somewhat small bundle of torn and bloody clothes. She recognized his jeans, a gold and red knit scarf she had made for him just two years prior, a soiled white undershirt, a pair of battered trainers, and his round black framed glasses. Hermione could feel her heart slightly skip a beat in horror, as a dull anger began to wash over her soul.

Protocol. Little bits of Harry neatly arranged on the sterilized table; it all seemed too fake, too surreal. She just wanted Harry to pop out of the corner, smiling, laughing, wrapping her up in his arms again, and apologizing for ever contemplating leaving her.

"Dear, are you sure you could do this?" the freckled woman asked softly. Hermione nodded fervently. It was what she had to do, for who else was to do it? How could anyone call such an agonizing practice protocol? Hermione swallowed the rising lump her throat, preparing herself; her eyes were still dry.

The woman quickly inserted a key into the lock of the stainless steel door, before slowing pulling it out. It only took one look for Hermione to quickly look away, she could barely recognize the body as belong to Harry's. Hermione lowered her head, and reached out for the sterilized steel table with all of Harry's things resting upon it, for she was too weak to stand. A strange mixture of shock and sadness washed over her, leaving her too stunned to even move.

"Miss?" the morgue attendant asked softly. "Is this your boyfriend?" Hermione could not reply.

"Ma'am," the morgue attendants tone growing quiet brisk, as if the corpse would jump out and bite her, "is this Harry Potter?"

Hermione slowly lifted her eyes. She had to follow I_protocol/I_, pass this sickening test, and prove to this woman, she could handle it. She had too, she was Hermione Granger, and she was far from weak.

Hermione's troubled brown eyes slightly widened when she laid eyes on him. I_Him/I, _she was barely even sure it was him. His body had a slightly blue tinge to it mixed in with a collage of deep blues and violets. His cheeks were sunken in and sallow, his hair was greasy and matted to his forehead. Hermione almost felt as if all the wind had been knocked out of her, as her eyes rested on the deciding factor. She easily could have denied to herself and to the attendant that the corpse belonged to Harry, but when she saw it. Beneath the deep blues, sickening violets, and dried and matted blood; there it resided. The bold lightening shaped scar. This was Harry Potter, he was no longer, and he was dead. Hermione's mouth opened wide in preparation to scream, but nothing come out. There was only an eerie deadsilence. The surreal began to sink in.

Harry Potter wasI _dead/I_.

 Hermione Granger didn't cry, not the first few days at least. It was all too surreal, all too imaginary; it couldn't be true; she'd tell herself. I_It just couldn't be/I_, but could it?

Harry Potter's funeral was a sea of sadness, hugs, and pain. Hermione couldn't remember the exact details, for she was just going through the motions. She never fully allowed herself to record anything mentally, she just wanted for it to end. She wanted people to turn their sympathetic eyes away from her. Why couldn't they just have left her alone for she could have sorted through her thoughts?

Even though Hermione could not remember exact details about the funeral, she remembered a few distinct things. She remembered clearly of Ron's wrapped around hers for the entire memorial service. His touch was soft and rough all at the same time. Hermione could feel her mind put up several red flags, but she was too exhausted to push him away. Pushing Ron away was what she did best while Harry was alive, but Harry was dead.

Another thing Hermione could remember from the funeral was the strange air of indifference among the mourners. Hundreds of people came, most of them out of curiosity; only a few of them were genuinely mourning. Hermione figured that they too were wondering how someone so mystical, could die in such a mundane way.

The last thing Hermione could remember was when she her indifferent exterior melted away, and she cried.

The funeral procession had moved to a secluded cemetery not far from Harry's accident site. Looming gray clouds hung low in the sky, and the cold January air sent a chill down Hermione's spine.

A somber Albus Dumbledore spoke a few last words before a small group of wizards began to gravely lower Harry's dark oak coffin into the ground. Hermione stared ahead as a numbing sensation befell her. The lower the coffin got in the grave, the clearer it became to Hermione that her life would never be the same again. She clearly remembered feeling Ron's freckled hand tighten around her's. Hermione continued to stare ahead as the sound of dirt hitting the casket reverberated through the silent crowd.

One by one, the crowd slowly began to dissipate; however, Hermione and Ron remained. The pair stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity before one of them finally spoke.

"He's really gone." Ron's words seemed to reverberate through Hermione's mind a few times before actually settling. She felt a slight twinge of guilt as she realized this was the most time she had spent with Ron in nearly weeks.

"I always thought he'd be around for me," Ron's voice trailed off, "for us I mean." Hermione continued to blankly stare off into the distance; she didn't know what to say to Ron.  His words were acting almost as daggers. Each one uttered felt like a vicious stab to the heart. Why was she so guilty? Was it her fault that Harry had told her on numerous occasions not to tell Ron about their relationship?

"I've realized something today, Hermione," Ron muttered. He turned to her as the wind started to pick up.  Hermione looked down towards their feet, not daring to look up into Ron's eyes.

"You don't have to say anything Ron," Hermione whispered, wanting nothing more than for him to walk away. She was fine until she saw Ron. Before Hermione saw him, with his sad brown eyes, and somber face. Before she saw him slightly hunched over, his cheeks redder than usual, his eyes puffy and pink, she almost could have convinced herself that she would keep her tears at bay.

"Yes, I do have to say something. Harry's dead," Ron snapped. Hermione looked up at him briefly; his eyes were ablaze, his freckles were almost invisible beneath the flush of his cheeks. Hermione quickly looked away regretfully.

"Hermione, when I first got your owl, I couldn't believe what happened. Then," Ron paused, his tone slightly softening, "after it started to sink in. The only thing I could feel besides this emptiness is regret. I…" Ron's voice slightly disappeared. Hermione bit her lip hesitantly as the lump in her throat continued to rise.

"I I_hate/I _myself for taking advantage of Harry and you. I was so caught up with that blasted job at the Ministry, I almost forgot who I was and what was important to me. I know the both of you may have felt abandoned, and for that I apologize. I really do." Ron's words seem to sludge around in her mind slightly before they finally registered. Why did she feel like the bad one? Then again, she was the bad one in their relationship. She had allowed herself to carry on a relationship with Harry for months behind Ron's back. Something inside of her had told her to never tell Ron the truth, that Ron and his jealousy would overshadow all his logic. She had used all the force within her body to not tell Ron that Harry and her shared more than just a friendly relationship. Hermione almost felt like kicking herself; Harry's funeral was no time for guilt trips.

"Ron," Hermione stammered, she could feel blood slightly rushing to her face, "you know I love you," she whispered, her eyes briefly making contact with his. He gave her hand a small squeeze before wiping at his face guiltily, he was crying.

"I love you too," he replied somberly. "I love you too," he repeated more to himself than to her.

"You should I_never/I _regret anything. Harry lived his life to the fullest, and we," Hermione could feel her voice slightly crack, she bit her lip again trying to keep her tears at bay. "We spent as much time with Harry as we could."

Ron squeezed her hand tightly, and pulled her into a compassionate embrace. Hermione could feel her muscles grow taunt by his mere loving touch. She closed her eyes as she hesitantly wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her head into his chest. She closed her eyes, inhaling Ron's almost soothing scent.

"Ron," Hermione murmured, her voice somewhat muffled by Ron's black corduroy jacket. Ron's grip around her tightened, but he did not answer.

Hermione could feel her teeth slightly clatter from the January cold. She had to tell Ron for she couldn't bear the guilt anymore. He was the only thing she had left in the world with Harry gone. The chestnut haired woman took a slow deep breath before speaking, "I I_loved/I _Harry."

Hermione waited anxiously for Ron to reply. She could feel Ron's grip slightly slacken as the tension between them solidified. Hermione could hear him clear his throat and him sniffle.

"I know you did," Ron replied solemnly. Hermione closed her eyes as the tears silently began to come, slow at first, long fat drops sliding down her face like melting butter.

"I-I," Hermione stammered, "II _really/I _loved him."

"I know you did," Ron repeated again. 

"You don't understand Ron, I need Harry, I don't know what I'm going to do. What am I going to do?" Hermione's seemed to be speaking from a place deep within her. Her true feeling of grief slowly began to bubble to the surface with each fat tear she cried. Ron wordlessly lifted his hand to her face and placed it softly upon her wet cheeks. He looked down at her; he was wearing a strange solemn expression as a solitary tear streamed down his face. Hermione silently raised her hand to Ron's as she wept.

The pair remained this way for nearly twenty minutes. Hermione wept for what was now gone for her life. She wept in sadness, and she wept in gratefulness. Even though Harry was gone from her life, it took his death to realize what she had left, her friend.


	3. Part Two Chapter Two

**Wisps of Silver and Gray**

**Part Two: Chapter Two**

**February 2007**

****

Hermione silently shut the oak door to her office behind her. She closed her eyes as a strange sense of relief watched over her. She had made it through the main offices of the Daily Prophet under the scrutinizing and sympathy filled eyes of her co-workers. Hermione kept her eyes and head low; she knew she couldn't let them see she was weak; especially I_him_. /I

As much as she wanted to deny it, Harry's death had left her mind bruised and battered. She was mentally and physically damaged, almost as if she had just returned from a war. The first two weeks without Harry seemed to be an endless stream of hurt and sadness. Everything she saw would remind her of him. Everything she heard would make her think of him. His things were scattered all around her tiny apartment; she still had not gathered enough courage to remove a bright blue sweater of his off the coach. Her orange tabby Sweetness, Crookshanks had died eight years before Harry's death, had made a home out of the sweater. The cat would silently curl into a tiny orange fluffy ball amidst the soft blue fibers of Harry's sweater. Hermione liked to imagine that this was Sweetness' own way of coping.

Hermione rubbed her eyes hesitantly as she sat down at her dark mahogany desk. She hit the table trying to jar her mind out of emotional mode and into intellectual mode. This was her first day back in nearly a month. Hermione's soft brown eyes quickly scanned the small stacks of parchment upon her desk. Most of them were small notes and memos of condolences from her co-workers. Hermione fished through them, pausing only to glance over every other one, before throwing the tiny scraps of parchment into her bin.

She bit her lip as her eyes returned to her desk. Hermione was reaching for her quill to write a short note to the inept witch who worked under her when it caught her eye. Hermione could feel a lump slightly rising in her throat as she wrapped her hand around the stem of a sole white rose. A smile slowly rose to her lips as a genuinely warm feeling began to fill her heart. Something deep within her told her who had sent her the rose, but her more logical side had quickly dismissed it.

Hermione lazily scrawled a small note in her neat handwriting before slowly rising to her feet. She hated to walk back out into the main floor of the office; she was a spectacle to them. She knew that her eyes would meet with every single one of them. They would all breath simultaneous dramatic sighs; _She was so close to Harry Potter, fancied him I heard. _Hermione pushed open the door to her office and quickly sauntered her way over to Irma Mudfrey's small cubicle.

Irma Mudfrey was a timid witch who was just a few years younger than her. Irma was one of those people who always wanted to impress. She exerted her best effort into everything, and she hated the thought of ever disappointed anyone. She had a slightly small wispy frame. A frame so light; if a fierce wind came, she had a very likely chance of being blown away. She always wore bright pink robes, and wrote slightly drab stories about new job appointments at the Ministry of Magic and new births in the wizarding community. Hermione, who had once had this job seven years before, now was in charge of editing every single story that went into the Daily Prophet. At first, Hermione distasted working at the Daily Prophet. She remembered its bland with-the-grain articles during her time at Hogwarts, and she loathed it. However, as the years passed and she received countless promotions, she grew to love it. She began to realize that the Daily Prophet was an important part of her life, and all she could do as embrace it.

The only problem with the Daily Prophet was that it had managed to cause a rift between Harry and her. Hermione had one superior over her at the Daily Prophet and Hermione knew that Harry loathed him with a passion. However, her will to succeed overrode Harry's qualms about her boss. She remembered wishing for that promotion, just one more would write him out of the picture, and Harry could finally be happy for her about her job. However, the promotion never came and Harry's patience soon grew weary. While he was alive, Hermione often did deny that she no longer distasted the man Harry had grew to dislike so much. Time she supposed had cured her contempt for him.

"How've you been Irma?" Hermione asked politely, placing the piece of parchment on the desk before the redheaded witch. Irma shuddered slightly in surprise before flashing her a smile that resembled more of a wince.

"I'm fine," Irma's voice trailed off, her big blue eyes avoiding Hermione's brown eyes. "You?" Irma finished.

"I'm doing better," Hermione whispered; she knew it was a lie, but Irma didn't _really _care about how she was feeling. Hermione brushed a lose strand of her curly brown hair behind her ear looking up around the bustling Daily Prophet office. The headquarters of Wizarding Britain's biggest newspaper was located in the heart of Diagon Alley. The office was always alive with the bustle of reporters, bumbling magical photographers pining to get their latest pictures into the Daily Prophet, panicked editors, and enchanters who stayed even later than Hermione did each night preparing to start the next day's Prophet. Hermione used to love it, but as she looked around her, she realized something. She realized that she no longer fit it, she felt slightly apart from everyone. Alone and alienated, she wanted nothing more than to run into her office, pack her things, and quit. Irma cleared her throat loudly jarring her ginger haired superior out of her disheartening thoughts.

"Did you hear me Miss Granger?" she asked.

"Pardon," Hermione mumbled clearing her throat. She leaned over cautiously on Irma's desk, suddenly remembering what she came to say to Irma. After a short explanation of all the tasks she had to finish, Hermione quickly left Irma to work. Hermione made her daily rounds, each witch or wizard asked the same question. "How you feeling?" "How are you holding up?" "Doing better?" "It must be so hard, I remember how I felt when my mother died."

By the time Hermione had reached her final reporter to talk to, she was already slightly on edge. Hermione finally reached her destination; an office located on the fourth floor of the Daily Prophet headquarters.

"Hermione," a bright voice called from within. Hermione slowly pushed open the door and walked in the office. Behind the desk sat a rather beautiful black haired woman of around twenty-seven. She quickly rose out of her high backed leather office chair and enveloped Hermione in a friendly embrace.

"Parvati," Hermione said rather mechanically, slightly taken aback by the display of affection. The woman gave her another hearty squeeze before returning to her chair. She gestured with a neatly manicured hand to a chair in front of her desk. Hermione hesitantly obliged. She could feel her face flush in embarrassment.

"So," Parvati's voice trailed off. Hermione cleared her throat, her eyes drifting over the many pictures on her desk. In a bright green metallic frame was a picture of Parvati and her twin sister Padma, the women were laughing; their black hair was swaying in the wind like long black sheets behind them. In a dark mahogany heart shaped frame a picture of Parvati and an attractive light haired man; however, the couple in this picture were not laughing. Parvati's likeness was frowning and the light haired man was walking looming silent circles around her. Parvati's soft hand quickly slammed the picture face side first onto her desk jarring Hermione out of her daze.

"I'm sorry," Hermione apologized quickly. Parvati flashed her a strange smile, a mysterious gleam in her eye.

"He's gone mad since you've been gone," Parvati said speaking in a hushed tone. Hermione could feel an odd feeling of relief washing over her when she realized Parvati would not ask of Harry's death or her feelings. She knew she could always count of Parvati not to care.

"Really?" Hermione asked pretending to sound interested. She changed positions in her chair as Parvati sat back in hers.

"Yes, and of course being the stubborn git he is, he wouldn't let me call you back to work. Said something about it being 'wrong'," Parvati muttered. Hermione bit her lip; usually Parvati worshiped their boss because they had been dating on and off years. By the look of the picture and the tone in her voice, Hermione assumed that the couple had once again turned off.

"Yes, about that word _work_," Hermione paused to lift up a few rolls of parchments she had collected before continuing, "I was wondering if you have your story on the vampire in Azkaban ready yet."

Her words didn't seem to register with Parvati for she continued to ramble, "I swear he's been driving himself nutters with the stress and all, then we had a dreadful row two weeks ago. Honestly, I don't know what he _wants_."

"Parvati," Hermione snapped, the dark haired woman looked up abruptly. "Yes, I understand that you have all the time in the world to sit here and moan incessantly about your dysfunctional relationship, but I do not. Now do you have your story?"

Parvati stared at Hermione with wide skeptical eyes before they fell to her desk. She quickly rummaged through her things, before pulling out a quite thick roll of parchment. She handed over to Hermione, a smug grin on her face.

"Just for your information, we've broken up." She stared at Hermione her smile finally vanishing. Hermione tried her best not to snort in the raven-haired woman's face.

"For good?" Hermione inquired. The girl gave a triumph nod as if breaking up with her boyfriend for the umpteenth time was a grand deed.

"He doesn't appreciate me much, and he's not the only one around here who doesn't," Parvati said in a slightly instigating tone. Hermione looked down at Parvati's story, Hermione wasn't the first to admit that Parvati did indeed have talent. However, she always was lacking in the brains department.

"I appreciate you Parvati," Hermione lied. Parvati flashed Hermione a hard scowl before speaking.

"Well even if you do, you can't deny that he only dated me so he could have someone to hang under his arm at his bloody charity balls. He disgusts me, he truly does," Parvati muttered shaking her head. Hermione could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks; she wanted desperately to leave. The beautiful dark haired woman behind the desk with her presence alone was keeping her there, keeping Hermione almost glued to her seat. Hermione cleared her throat as her eyes returned to the striking white rose that was still in her office.

"Parvati, did you give me a flower?"

" A flower?" Parvati asked in a slight quizzical tone.

"Yes, a white rose."

Parvati stared back at Hermione with wide eyes before slamming her fist against her desk; an intense look flashed in her eyes. "He's keen on you, I _knew _it."

"What?" Hermione replied sharply; in order for person to fancy someone, it would require liking them first. Parvati eyes sparked maliciously as Hermione stared back at her blankly.

"That bastard, you were all he could talk about for weeks," Parvati growled. Hermione clenched the armrests of her chair with her free hand.

"Well I should get going," Hermione mumbled quickly before rising to her feet. Parvati looked up at her with condescending eyes.

"If he asks, we never had this conversation," she barked. Hermione ignored the comment and rushed for the door. She was barely out of the furious raven-haired reporters' office when she collided into someone sending her small collection of parchment all over the white marble floor. Hermione quickly fell to the floor and collected her parchment in frustration; she had neither the time nor the patience for this.

"Mind you watch where you are going next time?" Hermione snapped sarcastically as she rose to her feet, however she had not ran into a lowly intern at the Prophet, she had just collided with the editor. Hermione could feel a burning sensation was over her entire body as he looked down at her, his body only inches from hers.

"Welcome back," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. Hermione's eyes fell to the floor, afraid to look at him.

"Thanks, Draco," she replied politely. Although after eight years of working under him, she still could not force to call himself Mr. Malfoy, even his given name was a stretch for her.

"Granger," he said quite smugly. Hermione's eyes finally rose from the floor, but when her eyes locked with hers, she almost regretted doing so. She closed her honey brown eyes before breathing a small sigh. She couldn't pretend to be happy in his face when she was not. He was different from the others. So different sometimes, it scared her.

As much as she hated to admit, Draco Malfoy was a handsome man. Despite the complete git he had been at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had made a turn for the better. After his father was sent away to Azkaban, he seemed to become a different person over night. Hermione did not hear one word from him, negative or positive except for the night of their graduation.

It had been storming fiercely the night before. The Hogwarts grounds were still wet with dew, and covered with a large array of wooden chairs from the Great Hall. Hermione could still remember the feeling of the soft velvet of their bright red and gold graduation robes. Hermione would graduate as the brightest in her class. Harry had been so happy, Ron quite the same. Her life was almost perfect, but in the back of her mind was this vague feeling. A feeling as if something wasn't right in her life. As if in all the completeness of her life, there was a small void.

It was exactly after the ceremony when he approached her. His Slytherin friends, Crabbe and Goyle nowhere to be found. Hermione could remember the slight regretful look as he looked down at her that warm summer day.

The dialogue was strained, that's what would best describe the small 'conversation'. Technically, it couldn't even be classified as a conversation, for he mostly spoke, and she mostly listened. "All right, Hermione?" he said, his greeting spilling out of his mouth like water out of a hose.

Hermione was stunned. Why would Draco Malfoy even give her the time of day, yet alone greet her after two years of not saying a word to her. She remembered distinctly him lowering his eyes from her, and shifting uncomfortably in his spot.

"I just wanted you to know, before we left Hogwarts that I…" his voice trailed on. Hermione leaned in closer, anxious of what the blonde would say next. "I wanted you to know that all of those things I said to you, and your bloody friends, I didn't mean them well—I did mean them, but I didn't. Well I did at the time but…" his startling gray eyes locked with hers, "That's not the point if I meant it or not. It's just that I wanted to apologize if anything I ever said to you lot was hurtful. Well if anything I said to _you _was hurtful, sorry."

With that, he was finished. Hermione stared back at him in mixture of complete awe and shock, did Draco Malfoy just _apologize _to her. Before she even could reply; he was gone.

Two years passed before Hermione saw Draco Malfoy again. She had just entered the small bumbling Daily Prophet office when she first saw him. Her life lay in a state of ruin; her friendships even worse. She had spent a brief time employed alongside her best friend Ron Weasley under his father in the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. The two of them shared a stiff relationship, which became unbelievably stressed when Ron disappeared in the height of the War.

Hermione was the first to admit that life after Hogwarts was far from happy or safe. She worried about Harry the most, for it was him who Lord Voldemort wanted gone. The brave and stoic Gryffindor would disappear for days on end. At the time, he had been training to be an Auror.

Hermione had taught herself not to ignore the sickening feeling of worry down in the pit of her stomach. She had learned not to worry; she had learned to just ignore it. However, when Ron went missing one breezy Spring day at the height of Voldemort's power, she was scared to death.

They were gone for three weeks. Twenty-one days of pure agony. Those days were days of wondering of their whereabouts, wondering if they were even alive. That's when Hermione began to loathe the element of time. With each second that past, the angrier she got at it. The angrier Hermione became, the more frustrated she became.

She had always been a strong person. Strength was thrown out the window while her two best friends were gone. For the first time in years, she felt alone. Facing the prospect of Harry and Ron leaving her alone forever, Hermione did what she did best; she worked.

In those three weeks alone, Hermione accomplished more goals and more work than most witches ever accomplish in their entire lives.

Of course, the dark period of her life did not remain forever. They both returned forever broken, worn, and changed. "Voldemort is dead." It was all Harry Potter could utter before pulling her into a warm embrace.

With that, Hermione quit her job at the Ministry. She could no longer trust herself because she couldn't guarantee herself anymore that she could resist letting work take over ever facet of her life. Hermione had walked into the Daily Prophet office that day dying for a chance and a change, and she got one. She got one when she met the new Malfoy.

Hermione opened her eyes; she was back on the fourth floor of her 'second' home. It was now her only home, for her home was with Harry. Hermione fought back the sudden urge to cry, wondering when and why her emotions started taking control over her logic.

Draco continued to stare down at her with an uneasy weary look in his bright silver and gray eyes. Hermione had to convince him that she was all right. Draco Malfoy had been causing her discomfort for years, with his smug smile, his hearty laugh, and his slow deep voice. He caused her discomfort by his mere presence; he always seemed to fill up a room. His name even caused her distress. Hermione feigned a smile, praying that Draco could disappear and leave her to her work. Work kept her mind off Harry. Hermione stood smiling painfully up at Draco before letting out a feigned nervous laugh. She knew her wit was the only way to end her misery.

"Stop the presses, London's power couple has had a row and broken up. Am I the only one who's not surprised?" Hermione asked her voice singed with sarcasam. Even though Hermione wasn't usually sarcastic, the sheer dread she felt talking to Malfoy was enough emotion to provoke her into it. Sarcasam was a method she could use with him to carry on a conversation and not get lost in the depths of his eyes. Hermione ran a nervous hand through her hair. She noticed that the sunlight pouring through the window was accentuated every slight detail of Draco's face, giving him a warm radiating glow. Hermione felt her mind stumble a bit, why would she ever want to carry on a conversation with Draco Malfoy?

"Where have you been, Granger? That news was published in the Prophet last week. I have the issue in my office if you care to look." Draco's slightly pink lips turned upward into a grin. His smile quickly faded as he stepped closer to her. Hermione could feel the heat from the sun bearing down at her neck, even though she was shivering. Why was she even trembling, could it be her nerves working against her?

Hermione could feel all her motor functions lock as she looked back into the deep steel blue pools of his eyes. She remembered the void she had felt during graduation and the agonizing three weeks of Ron and Harry's disappearance. For a time, at the height her Harry and her's relationship, she felt that the void had been filled. Now it was empty again. A deep gaping void resided in her heart, and it hurt as much as if someone had been stabbing and slashing at her soul. Hermione continued to look up at Draco in almost a trance like state; his eyes seemed to have the power to fill the once again empty cavity within her soul.

"The Prophet isn't the Prophet without Hermione Granger here to help me run it," the blonde haired man said solemnly. Draco Malfoy often spoke in a low rushed tone. His voice possessed a strange sort of enticing quality while still inviting enough to keep the listening interesting. "How have you been doing, Hermione?"

Hermione stared back at him in shock. She reached out for the wall as to not fall over in shock. His breakup with Parvati must have affected his mindset to even inquire Hermione how she felt. Draco usually spoke to her only when necessary, or when no one else was around. In front of others, he treated her decently, but with a slightly cold reserve that he had always processed at Hogwarts. Even when they were engaged in a genuine conversation, Draco Malfoy rarely ever let the conversation turn personal, yet alone caring. Not only was Draco being crucially kind to her, he even had addressed her by her given name. Over the years at the Prophet, Hermione had almost forgotten that he knew her first name. Hermione looked around the corridor uneasily to see if she had not entered the twilight zone.

"I'm fine," Hermione replied laughing nervously. Draco's sullen expression did not change.

The much taller man reached out for her shoulder, giving it a solemn squeeze before whispering, "No, really Granger. How are you?"

Hermione stared at him; she could feel her heart slightly harden as resentment washed over her. There was no way Draco Malfoy could care about her on a personal level. He was Draco Malfoy, and one thing was always definite with him. Everything that ever concerned him always had something to do with himself in one way or the other. He only seemed to be asking her how she was out of sympathy, pity, and his own self-concern. He only wanted to make sure she had accepted Harry's death so she would be able to work, to help him run the Prophet. Hermione winced at her own sheer foolishness for believing for one second that Malfoy cared. She shook her head, clutching her large collection of parchment to her chest.

"I don't need your pity, Draco Malfoy," Hermione snapped. Draco stared down at her in mild surprise, a strange expression overcoming his visage. "You didn't care about Harry when he was alive, so why even pretend to be concerned now. I'm _fine_, and maybe you should think twice before beginning to meddle in the personal lives of your employees," Hermione continued, her eyes beginning to well with tears as her voice grew louder.

"But— " Draco began before Hermione abruptly cut him off.

"No," Hermione barked, "Harry's dead and sometimes I wish I died right alone with him. I don't want to hear your snotty little remarks about how I'm an asset to this paper, because I already know I am. You don't have to pretend to be concerned just because you care about your bloody paper. Because you know what?" Hermione paused to poke her index finger into Draco's smooth black velvet robes.

"I don't have anything to live for anymore except this paper. At the end of the day, you _will _get your story. So you can take your bloody white roses and 'heartfelt' remarks about my 'condition', and bugger off!"

Draco flashed her a slightly hurt expression before running a hand through his short blonde hair. "I'm just trying to help, Granger."

"Well you're not helping, you're just making me feel worse," Hermione snapped. Draco stared at her momentarily before moistening his lips.

"Well fine then, if you want me to, I'll leave you alone from now on," Draco said gravely, his face was now expressionless.

"That sounds great with me," Hermione replied tartly. Draco gave her a slow nod as he stepped back from her and towards the door of Parvati's office. Hermione quickly turned around and began to walk towards the lift when Draco cleared his throat from behind her.

"I understand how your mind makes you want to think you're angry with me, but you aren't really," Draco said solemnly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just don't l make the mistake I did and let that anger take over you. In the end you'll just end up alone and hating the entire world."

Hermione stared back at him, suddenly feeling a tinge of guilt for speaking so roughly with Draco. She looked at Draco a final time before turning around and continuing to saunter towards the lift. Draco was both right and wrong. She did feel an overwhelming mix of sorrow and anger. She hated so many things that could have led to her losing Harry. She hated Draco for drudging up all her frustrations and enlightening her. Most of all, she was beginning to loathe herself. If she had only just did what Harry had wished, and quit the job at the Prophet. Harry would not have gotten into the car upset. He would have never forgotten his wand in fury. Harry would still be with her, and she wouldn't be alone.

**March 2007**

Hermione guiltily bit into another pastry while sauntering over how she had ended up where she was. She stared ahead into the ember flames licking up the sides of the sleek and elegant marble of the fireplace. One minute she was working late at the Daily Prophet, the next she was sitting on a comfortable red velvet couch staring into the most exquisite fireplace she had ever seen.

The fireplace was made out of dark black marble, and the edges were sheathed in gold foil. The mantle of the fireplace was taller than Hermione, and above it hung an immaculate family portrait. Hermione stared up at it resentfully before taking a sip of her tea. Lucius Malfoy stared back down at her haughtily before exiting the portrait.

Hermione turned uncomfortably in her seat; she could not look at the painting any longer. She cleared her throat as her eyes fell toward the gleaming mahogany flooring. She had never even paused before to realize that people could live in such opulence. Hermione eyes were about to rest on a life-sized marble sculpture of an Olympian when he entered. He glided towards her, his lips lifted into a smile.

"I brought us more tea," he smiled brightly. Hermione looked up at him as placed the tray containing a delicate white and green teapot down onto the coffee table. Hermione sat down her cup beside it and looked back at Draco with weary eyes.

"You didn't have to do that," she mumbled. Hermione had made the mistake of accepting Draco's invitation to return to his Manor. Half of Hermione wanted to thank him for sensing her sheer loneliness while the other side loathed him for ever thinking she deserved his pity.

"It was nothing really," Draco said quietly as he reached for Hermione's empty teacup. "If it wasn't for me, you'd still be back at that office." Draco poured the hot steaming liquid into Hermione's cup. "Care for some sugar? Milk?"

Hermione looked back at Draco with uneasy eyes. Draco had been treating her remarkably kind for a month now, and she still couldn't figure out how to handle it. Should she embrace his friendship? Should she reject it? Deep within her, the chestnut haired witch almost felt comfortable receiving Draco's kindness. He was the only person who seemed to be _right_ after Harry's death. She could no longer look to any of her old friends for they all looked at her with eyes full of a deep remorseful sadness. Ginny could remain with Hermione for a few minutes before bursting into tears. Ron would apparate into her small cottage, his face bleak and weary. He'd sit on the couch, his eyes dreaming of better times, dreaming of Harry. Ron just wasn't himself anymore. Even with all her old mates around her, she still felt so empty, isolated, and alone.

At first, Hermione thought things were going to change between her and Ron. She wished for their relationship to be complete again, for them to hold something in common. They needed to hold something between each other besides their grief for Harry. However, as each day passed, the further away she began to feel from Ron. She wanted things to be like they were before. She wished with every bone in her body that things would change back. However, her dreams had withered away and died right along with Harry.

"Granger?" Draco asked suddenly jarring Hermione out of her thoughts.

"Oh," Hermione replied letting out a nervous laugh. "I'm fine," she finished, her voice low. Draco's eyes lingered on her shortly before he swiftly looked up at the portrait above the fireplace. Hermione stared up at it too before bring her cup to her lips. Lucius Malfoy had returned to the portrait. The tall blonde haired man stood behind a seated teenaged Draco Malfoy and beside a tall blonde haired woman.

"Does it bother you looking at it?" Hermione asked suddenly. She groaned when she realized the words had left her mouth. She looked quickly at Draco before quickly looking down into the fuzzy green fleece of her sweater, her face flushing ten shades darker.

"I've gotten used to the fact that that man no longer exists," Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. "My mother has not," Draco mumbled twiddling a plain silver band around his finger as he talked. Hermione sat down her cup and sat back into the great velvet couch.

"You can visit him, can't you?" Hermione inquired turning towards Draco. His nervous smile quickly faded as he continued to twist the band around his finger.

"Prison is no place to see the man you admire," Draco's voice trailed off as his eyes wandered towards the portrait. "Azkaban has reduced him to nothing. Without his power he's nothing. He's just a shadow of my father, but he's not my father. Never will he be it again."

Hermione and Draco fell silent for a few minutes before Draco cleared his throat loudly. He wiped as his reddened face quickly before hastily taking a sip of tea. Hermione bit her lip shamefully she had gone too far. She wasn't ready to be this mentally intimate with someone. She longed desperately to get up and run away from him, but she remained in her seat fixated on the blonde haired man before her. Something about his manner was so enticing and so intriguing; she wanted to learn more.

Growing up, she assumed she knew everything. Perhaps she did. She even assumed she knew the real Draco Malfoy the coldhearted slimy git. A malice filled boy with every intent to trample on anyone in his way. Never before did Hermione realize that he processed a heart underneath his stone cold surface. Sitting here beside Draco Malfoy in his home, saying things too personal and too close for comfort, it really put things back in perspective for her. The man before her was slowly transforming into just that, a real man. Not just a cold outer shell, but something deeper. He was a real person.

"I'm sorry for telling you off the way I did back at the office," she said earnestly. Draco's eyes remained locked on the portrait as he leaned forward until his elbows were on his knees. His breaths came slow and steady as he placed his head in his hands.

"Granger," Draco lifted his head up from his hands abruptly. She leaned forward as she stared at Draco; a strange force was pulling her closer to him. "Do you want to know the real reason why I'm doing this?"

Hermione could feel herself wince as he said the word _this. _Her suspicions had been correct; a strange occurrence had indeed been going on. He was up to something. Draco let out a nervous laugh before running his hand through his light blonde locks.

"I—I—" Draco stammered. His eyes glazed over as he continued to stammer. His face was now a deep shade of purple. "I went to Potter's funeral."

Draco quickly turned towards her grabbing her hand forcefully. Hermione avoided his wide-eyed stared as a strange warmness enveloped her body at his touch. She had been secretly observing Draco from afar, but now that he was within reach, it felt all too surreal. Draco Malfoy at Harry's funeral. It denied all laws of life. Draco and Harry went together like oil and water went together. Harry's downfall was his triumph. Harry's death was Draco's cause of celebration. The two of them just didn't mix.

"Why?" Hermione asked almost instinctively, not realized the words had left her mouth until they were already spoken

"That's what I've been asking myself for two months now. Why did I go?" Draco asked his grip tightening around Hermione's hands. She could feel her hands beginning to perspirate and her heart beat quicken. What was happening to her?

"I've been envious of Harry for years now. That's all it ever was," Draco muttered more to himself than to Hermione, his grip growing even tighter. Hermione shut her eyes praying that Draco would let go, that the knot in her stomach would unclench, and the feeling of warmth radiating around every inch of her body would disappear. "I bloody hated him for everything he was fortunate to have and take for granted. Respect, people around who appreciated him, admired him really. Then, on top of all of that, Potter had you, Hermione."

Hermione almost felt as if Draco had ripped her heart out of her chest. She could feel her lungs clench and beads of sweat rolling down her face in torrents. The heat from the fire and Draco seemed to be enveloping her. There was no way Draco could be saying what she thought he was saying.

"But…" Hermione stammered, "Parvati. You have Parvati, she's gorgeous, she's mad for you," Hermione continued, all legible thought had clearly left her mind for the rest of the words that left her mouth were a cluttered jumbled mess. Draco released one of her hands and placed it her on now fire red cheek. Hermione closed her eyes, why had she suddenly forgotten how to breathe?

This couldn't be right, this man wasn't Harry, she loved Harry. She _loved _Harry so much it hurt, and she missed him so much the pain was unbearable. Draco slowly ran his fingers across the contours of her worn and weary face.

"Parvati and I aren't real, and you know it. I've said more to you in these past few hours then I'd ever say to Parvati in a lifetime," Draco replied in a hushed tone, his fingers now tracing her contours of her supple lips. Hermione opened her eyes to find herself looking into the deep cold steel pools. They almost seemed to possess the power to envelop her and rob her of all comprehensible thought.

"I can't do this Draco," Hermione whimpered as a sole tear rolled down her cheek. Hermione closed her eyes as she felt the family pang of guilt hit her. Her selfishness had sent Harry to his early grave; she couldn't go on in life with the burden of ever being this close to Draco. However, he seemed to hold her in a weird sort of a daze. Her mind seemed to respond negatively to his advances, but her body was frozen. Another tear slipped out of one of her eyes, but Draco swiftly stopped it with a soft kiss. Hermione could feel a strange feeling shoot out from the depths of her heart to all her outer extremities when she felt his skin brush against hers.

Draco paused shortly before pressing his lips against hers. His lips lingered as if to get a reaction out of her leaving Hermione completely frozen. She could feel her body clench up, and his grip around her face tighten.

Hermione didn't comprehend what she was doing, but she was doing it. Her lips had responded, while her heart had shriveled up. The dull aching feeling in her heart had been buried with the desire to be close with someone, anyone, again. Draco pulled away from her as his hands drifted to her waist. His lips gently brushing against her lips, her cheeks, her neck. She could feel herself fall back onto the velvet couch as the kisses grew more intense. Then it hit her. Everything around her appeared to slow down and finally pause. Draco looked up at her, her eyes meeting his for what felt like an eternity.

For a split second, she could almost swear those steel eyes turn emerald. Hermione closed her eyes, and opened them. She could feel the sense of warmth evade her body as Draco pulled his dark robes over his head. Hermione sat up suddenly, leaving her face to face with Draco. Hermione quickly rose to her feet, knocking over her porcelain teacup in the process.

Draco's normally pale face flushed a deep shade of red. He didn't have to ask what was the matter, for anyone could notice it. Hermione wiped furiously at the wetness dripping off her cheeks in bulging beads. She was unsure if was tears or pure hurt or pure horror. Hermione grabbed her winter coat that was hanging neatly by the doorway of her foyer. She turned back to face Draco, she could feel her face flushed a bright red. She tried her best to swallow the now rising lump in her throat.

"I'm sorry but this is just too much," she mumbled. Draco continued to stare at her, eyes wide. Hermione wished she could read his mind, for his face was completely expressionless. "I should go," Hermione said again, hoping to get an emotion out of him, any emotion. She could almost feel a tiny pang of regret in her chest, had she passed up the only opportunity to see Draco from within?

"Hermione, you should stay," he replied. However, his statement seemed more like a command than a request. The pale man quickly lowered his eyes. Something deep within Hermione told her to put her coat on and leave. However, she remained there. Her heavy black trench coat was still clenched in her right hand.

She had reached a crossroad. Each road led to an equally dreary future. She _loved _Harry. However, she couldn't muster enough of his love to prepare her for living the rest of her years in complete isolation. She was going to have to move on someday. Despite all of her constant wishing, she will never wake up in Harry's arms again. He was gone from her. As much as she wanted to hate the thought of something so permanent, dark, and looming, She was obligated to accept it. Death was apart of life. You live, you die. Death doesn't skip over people just because they don't want it to happen. She _needed _to have her heart accept this. Draco seemed to want to help her move on, while her other people in her life's mere presence made her burst into tears.

Hermione made a fateful decision that night, one that she would equal synonymously with a strange mixture of regret and acceptance; she stayed.


	4. Part Two Chapter Three

** Part Two: Chapter Three Present Day **

**June 2009**

****

"No, that just looks tacky!" Hermione grumbled yanking the bright maroon tie off her husband's neck. He flashed her a look of complete dread as she added the tie to a huge multi colored pile upon their bed. The two of them had been fishing through clothes for his dinner meeting with the Minister of Magic and several other Heads of Department. Ron was first in line for a Head job.

"If you keep plowing on at this rate, I'll have to go naked," Ron said bitterly. Hermione flashed him a small grin before returning to their cluttered wardrobe.

"Your father wouldn't appreciate that much," she replied before tossing Ron a neutral grayish green tie. A look of disgust flashed across his face before he hesitantly put it on. Hermione turned to look at him, her grin slowly fading. She was more than unhappy to be back in London, but she knew she owed it to Ron. He had made so many life changes to please her; the least she could do was offer her husband support. The owl had come as a complete surprise. Arthur Weasley had been appointed the Minister of Magic and he wanted Ron to return to England and take his now vacant job. The couple sat in silence as Ron adjusted his tie. He turned towards the floor mirror in the corner of room before finally speaking.

"Did you put Hannah to bed already?" he asked his voice low. Hermione sat down at the bed and began to sort and sift through the jumble of ties.

"Twenty minutes ago," Hermione replied in a rather indistinct tone. She feared if she spoke any louder, Ron would know she was rather unhappy with him. Ron reached for his soft black dress robes and pulled them on over his trousers and dress shirt.

"Go anywhere today?" he asked. Hermione rose to her feet and sauntered over to the oak wardrobe.

"Yes, I had to get her out of the house, she loved the fresh air," Hermione said as she placed the ties in the dresser. Ron ran a hand through his hair before finally turning away from the mirror. He quickly walked over towards the bed and retrieved his wand from the end table. Hermione could sense the tension between them, but chose to remain silent. Things between them were often tense. The move back to Britain had merely increased it.

"My family is looking forward to seeing her again. Mum invited us to dinner. I told her we'd be around next Saturday night. Alright?" Ron asked. Hermione ran a hand through her much shorter dirty blonde locks as she noticed Ron neglected to question where she had went. She bit her lip as Ron began to brush off his clothes. She knew him like the back of his hand. After brushing off his clothes, he would wander over to her and kiss her forehead mindlessly. After that, she'd follow him into Hannah's room, and he'd kiss her goodbye too. He'd ask Hermione to wish him luck, and then he'd dissaparate. She had to get it out while she still had the nerve. She could no longer feign that moving back to London was the greatest thing that could happen to her. The time had begun to move much slower, and each second felt worse than the prior.

She almost felt resentful towards Arthur Weasley for hand selecting his youngest son to take his former position as Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department. She had adored living in Greece. She had been able to take her mind off her problems and improve her own faults. She spent more time with Hannah, yet still taking the time out to study her Greek while in the process tutoring Ron in the language. Then she enjoyed the hours she had gotten to spend in complete peace with herself. Her mind had finally ceased to think disturbing, regretful thoughts. Her guilt had stopped eating away at her, and she no longer contemplated if her love for Ron was real. Greece had helped her paint a pristine picture of a family, her family. Now here she was, back in Britain. It was something about being home again that made each and everyone one of her demons return. She had been living her fake-whitewashed life for so long, she was starting to accept it as reality. Now being back around the people who knew her best, she felt she could no longer pretend.

"Ron," Hermione said suddenly, her lips moving faster than her mind. Ron looked up at her, but remained silent.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked softly. Ron stared at her as a strange expression washed over his face.

"Eat dinner with my family?" he asked quizzically, he quickly replaced his vague expression with one of bafflement. Hermione could see right through it, something else was on her husband's mind.

"No," she muttered. "Moving back to Britain and taking this job. Do you really want it?" Hermione asked, she could feel her knees slightly go weak, causing her to lean up against the wardrobe for support. Ron who had begun to make his way towards her instantly froze in his tracks.

"Of course I'm sure," Ron replied, his voice sounding rather forced. Hermione continue to stare into Ron's wide eyes. "I mean," he continued. "We couldn't live like that forever."

"Like _what_," Hermione said sharply. She knew that Ron was making far less money than what he called sufficient working as a Defense Against The Dark Arts teacher at the Greek wizarding school, Arkaios.

"You know what I mean," Ron replied curtly. He continued towards the door. Hermione quickly followed him as Ron walked down the hallway and into Hannah's dark nursery. He quietly approached the crib, and let out a small sigh. Hermione quickly followed suit, placing her chin upon the cedar railing of the crib. She could feel her heart slightly warm as she looked down at her sleeping child.

"This is hard for me too," Ron said suddenly, the tone of his voice suddenly changing. He reached down into the crib and ran his hand through Hannah's growing bright blonde hair. Hermione bit her lip, as much as she hated to admit it, she hated moments such as these. She would often find herself in a strange sense of panic whenever Ron would look down at Hannah. His eyes would widen in love, and he'd often whisper, "That's my girl." Each word would send a dagger through Hermione's heart whenever he said it, for she knew the truth.

"I know it's why we both left, Hermione," Ron whispered snapping Hermione out of her short-term daze. "I miss him too," he muttered again. She stared down at Hannah in a light pink shirt and diaper. Her child was her world, and a major reason why she had persuaded Ron in taking the job in Greece. She knew she was running from dark things in her past, things darker and deeper than missing Harry. His death was merely the tip of the iceberg. She knew Hannah's appearance alone was cause for speculation. She never wanted to return to Britain, but now she had to return. Not just return, but to live her new live to the fullest and at least accept the truth about her daughter. Hermione swallowed the rising lump in her throat. She wanted to say so much to Ron, yet nothing would come out. She could hardly bear to look at him, for she knew she had betrayed him. Realizing that she wasn't going to answer, Ron quickly leant down and kissed the sleeping toddler's forehead.

Hermione remained almost frozen in her spot as Ron walked towards the door. She cleared her throat causing Ron to turn around. "I hope you get the job," she said, flashing him a small forced grin. Ron returned it with a genuine smile. Hermione loved his grin. It was wide enough to make her forget all her troubles. That smile had gotten her through the roughest of times.

"I should be back before midnight," Ron said quickly before giving Hermione a small wave and disappearing with a loud pop. As soon as Ron was gone, the curly haired witch sauntered over to the corner and sat down in her comfortable black leather chair. The room was in a complete state of disarray. Boxes upon boxes of things had remained unpacked; Hermione had been too preoccupied to unpack them, even by magical means.

Hermione could feel her mind pause. What was she doing? Playing house with her best friend, fighting over petty things. She almost felt as if she was in an alternate universe. She had been Mrs. Hermione Jane Weasley for two years now. At first, she was burdened down with guilt. She would have haunting dreams reliving each moment she had spent with Draco. Draco Malfoy, his name caused every muscle in her body to stiffen. She had been thinking about him constantly since the day she had last saw him.

As much as she hated to admit it, she had made a grave mistake. She had trusted Draco Malfoy. Her heart had been rubbed raw from Harry's death. The first night she was with Draco, she could recall as one of the most mixed moments of her life. She felt a strange mixture of pure elation and then one of pure horror. She felt she was betraying Harry, but at the same time doing herself a favor.

She had let him in, and he took advantage of her. If there was one thing a man like Draco was good at, it was getting what he wanted. With a sole sad face, or one well-placed kiss, he'd get her to overshadow her own senses. He'd get her to do something stupid. He'd get her. He was conniving, yet she kept coming back for more.

Something about him, kept her coming back. He contained a somewhat inviting yet mysterious factor about him. She knew what she was doing was wrong. She knew a man like Draco Malfoy, a socialite, would never _ever _wed her. Her inner conscience was telling her to do right, and Draco would manipulate her into doing wrong.

It ended with a blinded moment of passion and three well placed words . Just like that, it was over, it was done. Hermione closed her eyes as memories of the end paraded her aching soul, clear as day.

**May 2007**

Hermione politely folded her napkin across her lap as the fine haired waiter set their bowls before them with a fine flick of his wand. She looked down at the brown gooey mess upon her plate and grimaced. She glanced up at a frowning Draco who had already begun to eat it quietly.

Hermione bit her lip as she picked up one of the several spoons and hesitantly scooped the bubbling chunky liquid into her mouth. She had experienced French cuisine, but nothing as daring as snails. She could feel her face contort into a grimace as Draco looked up at her unblinkingly.

"You have to have a more eclectic palette to tolerate it," he commented, his voice slightly low. Hermione hid her grimace and continued to slurp up the escargot. This was the first time Draco had ever actually taken her out. She didn't want to spoil the outing by complaining about the food.

"So," Hermione muttered trying to spark up a conversation. Draco had been acting unusually strange for most of the evening. Maybe he was surprised at himself for even daring to take her out. Hermione looked up at Draco in his fine dress robes. What was she doing? Why did she continue to let her heart believe that something with Draco would ever work out? She of all people knew that life was not simple, yet in the process it was all too cruel. Life had been cruel enough to take away one of the most important people in her life away from her. How could it ever repent itself? How could it let her have someone as handsome, charming, intelligent, and genuine as Draco? Life had a way of punishing her. Hermione stared at Draco as he ate. She hated herself for processing an inkling of emotion for him. What was it? It surely couldn't be love. Life was too cruel to let her love again.

"It's really nice here," Hermione said quickly in a blind attempt to get Draco talking. She couldn't figure out why he was so quiet, it was his idea to visit Paris.

"I know, Parvati and I used to come here often," he murmured. The curly haired witch could feel her heart slightly sink. She had been involved with him for nearly three months, and he still had not told Parvati about his new relationship. Hermione took a quick sip of her wine before frustratingly taking another large slurp of the gooey brown mess.

"That's a great way to make a woman feel good about herself," Hermione said trying to mask the frustration in her voice. "Denying that you are seeing her, then taking her to the same restaurants you went with your ex-girlfriend. Wow, I feel _really _special, Draco."

Draco's bleak expression did not change. Hermione quickly looked away from him, fighting the familiar urge to smack him. The incident where Draco denied their relationship numerous times at a party still stood fresh in her mind. Deep within, she knew life would never let her have Draco. So why was she even bothering to become upset? Was her anger a sign of deeper feelings for him?

"You don't know how hard it is to be me, Granger," he snapped back at her. Hermione rolled her eyes avoiding his wide stone-eyed gaze. She was beginning to feel remarkably foolish. She could feel a bout of nausea washing over her. She figured her newfound weak stomach was due to the stress Draco caused her. He would constantly do and say things to push her buttons, but with a mere look or kiss, her anger would be washed away. His power over her was undeniable, and she couldn't control herself when in his presence. It led to a vicious cycle, which often led to the same intense resolution.

"Act like an ungrateful pompous ass, I think I can do that," Hermione snapped rather scathingly. Hermione looked up at Draco as he too rolled his eyes. She knew exactly what would happen next. He would return her insult with an equally derisive slur. They'd quarrel for a few minutes. In the worst of circumstances, he'd disapparate and not apologize for a few hours. However, he always did return. They'd make up in a fit of passion, and then they'd fight again and initiate the cycle once more. Hermione was in no mood to bother with him, and the longer she sat before him, the more nauseated she began to feel. Hermione angrily ripped her napkin off her lap and threw it on the table.

"I'm going to the lavatory," she said hastily. Hermione didn't bother to look back as she stormed past several dining couples that were laughing joyously and talking in French. Hermione was about to round another corner towards the lavatories when she collided with someone, sending her to the ground. Hermione groaned in pain, she felt almost as if she had collided with a brick wall. Her world seemed to be spinning around her as the stranger offered her a hand. She hesitantly took it and rose to her feet brushing off her black satin dress in the process. Hermione could feel her heart clench as the tall redheaded stranger came into focus. It was Ron.

"Well look who it is," he said jovially before grinning at her. Hermione could feel her face flush in a mixture of embarrassment and shame. Why was it she always had to run into people she was desperately trying to avoid? She knew she had been dodging him for the past few weeks. He was the sole person who knew every little thing about her. She was afraid if she saw or spoke to Ron, he'd figure out the new man in her life instantly. He'd see the change it he had sparked in her. He'd notice it wasn't the real her. Hermione nervously ran a hand through her hair, trying to figure out what to say to him. She found it slightly ironic not to have a single word to say to someone after years of friendship

"What are you doing here in Paris?" Ron inquired, beating her to the punch, as he casually leaned against the wall. Ron was dressed impeccably in soft royal blue dress robes. His normally unruly fire red hair had been brushed and well tamed. He clearly was there for a reason.

"Business," Hermione replied hastily.

"I figured that when I saw Malfoy out there," Ron said rather bleakly, motioning towards Draco looking quite morose on the other side of the restaurant.

"So," Ron said slowly, one hand still placed firmly against the wall. Hermione hesitantly brushed off her dress; she knew what was coming next. "I've been owling you like mad, still haven't gotten a reply. I was afraid you had forgotten how to use a quill," he said quite indignantly. Hermione could feel a knot of guilt mixed in with her mild nausea slowly bubble up, but she quickly swallowed it.

"I've just been busy," Hermione replied after regaining her composure. Ron stared at her; his eyes seemed to be searching her soul for some sort of reason why she had been avoiding him. Hermione could feel her eyes fall to the floor as she struggled to keep her expression blank as she began to feel queasy again. She couldn't stand to be in Ron's presence. Everytime she looked up at him, all she could think of was Harry. Something had changed about Ron when Harry died, and Hermione just could not put her finger on it. Sometimes she wondered if perhaps, he had remained the same and she was the one who had changed.

"Hermione, you all right?" Ron inquired, his voice taking on a concerned tone. Hermione could feel another surge of nausea but she quickly swallowed it.

"I'm fine," she snapped. She wanted nothing more than for Ron to walk away. She could feel his eyes continue to explore every inch of her. She self consciously brought her hand around the diamond necklace Draco had bought her. Ron's eyes seemed to widen as his eyes landed on it. His attention quickly returned to Draco who was now angrily snapping his napkin across his lap. He flashed Hermione a weary gaze before glancing back at a table of vital looking wizards, one of which Hermione recognized as Arthur Weasley.

"Let me guess, that necklace is business too?" Ron asked suddenly. Hermione could feel her face redden and her mind stall. He flashed her a somewhat complacent look before running a hand down her exposed arm. His mere touch caused her to jump back in surprise. There was nothing remotely similar between his sweet, warm touch and Draco's rough yet enticing one.

"Well, I should be off," Ron muttered.

Ron quickly turned off his heel and sauntered off. "Nice seeing you, Hermione," he mumbled from over his shoulder.

"Nice seeing you too," Hermione whispered after Ron was long gone. It was then when a strange feeling of pure horror finally registered deep within her soul. She had been denying who she was, just to be with Draco. She was pushing away people she loved most just so she could have him. She had willingly given up a lifetime's worth of friendship for a few moments of passion.

Feeling disgusted with herself, Hermione quickly made her way towards her destination. She muttered to herself while watching the remerged contents of her dinner spinning around the commode and out of sight. However, the sickening feeling had remained. What had she done? How had she gotten there? Hermione rose to her feet, her knees wobbly and stormed out of the lavatory.

"We're leaving," Hermione commanded moodily, grabbing a glowering Draco by the hand and out of the restaurant. She had to get out of there to clear her head and answer the most important question of all. What _was_ she doing? If she had turned back, she would have seen Ron's wide eyes of concern, thinking the exact same thing.

She closed her eyes as she felt Draco's hand closed around hers. The couple lay in complete silence on the far ends of Hermione's large oak framed bed. Everything in the room felt still aside from the steady rising and falling of their chests. Their hands were the only bridge between them.

Hermione stared at the ceiling vacantly, her mind devoid of all thoughts. The strange feeling in the pit of her stomach had returned. No matter what she could do, the image of Ron's probing eyes couldn't escape her.

Draco broke the stiff silence between them by letting out a sigh and whispering, "I'm sorry."

The apology slightly caught Hermione off guard, but Ron's image remained. She opened her mouth, but nothing but a small croak was able to escape.

"It's just that it's hard, Granger," he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. _Hard_, Hermione thought bitterly, _was an understatement. _She remained silent for Draco often used this excuse to explain his wrongdoing. She was beginning to think it was merely apart of his act. However, something was different in his voice. There was something subtle but definitely something different. Hermione could feel her lips move, but her voice once again failed to respond. All she could think about was Ron.

Not once in nearly four months had Hermione stopped to think about how her new absence would affect Ron. She had been attempting to shield herself from him. She was too afraid to let down her guard and let Ron in again. The day of Harry's funeral was the closest the two friends had ever been on a mental level. Having Harry close to her, it was something she was used to. It was something she always longed for. Having Ron close to her, now that was something entirely different. It was almost too invasive. With Harry, she could put herself and her emotions out there and Harry would slowly respond. Yet, he would rarely let her in. At times, she'd let it get to her, but it created a strange invisible barrier between them. A barrier that was often _comfortable_.

However, with Ron she could feel Ron reaching out for her constantly. He'd put himself out there. There was no safety barrier to distance herself from him. He was persistent when it came to being emotionally intimate with her. Hermione was unsure if she could do the same.

Then there was Draco. With Draco, the barrier between the two of them was so thick it was nearly tangible. Hermione had learned from her relationship with Harry that a relationship could never work with someone always putting something on the table and the other constantly refusing to accept it. Not accepting the truth and actually accepting Harry's negative feelings about her job eventually led to Harry's accident. She wanted Draco to be open with her desperately, but instead of putting things out on the table, he'd add another brick to the wall between them. That different tone in his voice seemed to have started it all. "My parents always held me up to this gold standard."

"As far back as I can remember, all I _ever _heard from them was being _pure_," Draco whispered. Hermione could feel herself slightly lean in closer to him. "It was more pure _blood _with my father, which of course I gobbled up because I admired him."

"But with my mother," Draco's voice faltered as he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. His touch was rough that night. "She was the one who always wanted the Malfoy _name _to be pure. She loved the opulence. She loved the feeling of being able to have whatever she cared for. It was nice for her to have people around her green with envy because she was living the _life_."

Draco's words did not seem to register with Hermione until he began to gently retrace the contours of her face. She could feel goose bumps erupt over her entire body and her stomach nauseatingly churn as he drew closer. She wanted to resist the temptation for she felt her life beginning to spin out of control. Whenever she was with Draco, she'd lose all logic. Hermione just couldn't afford to not use her senses, for what little remained in her life was in jeopardy.

"Ever since my father was sent to Azkaban, she started to stress the fact that I need to help maintain a positive image around the Malfoys." Hermione could feel all the air in her lungs escape at her lover's words. It all made sense, Draco's strange behavior, his hesitance to introduce her to the public as his girlfriend. He felt she was bad for his public _image. _

Hermione could feel her insides began to bubble in anger, but her outer extremities remained frozen. Draco had now sat up in her bed and began to remove his robes. She knew what he expected. She knew what it was that he wanted. However the more she thought about his confession, the more furious she became. He was acting as if he hadn't said anything at all, as if Hermione was only a mere plaything.

"So that's it, Draco?" Hermione said. She noticed her voice sounded remarkably sweet, the exact opposite of what she was feeling. Draco, who had already removed his dress robes leaving him in a pair of dress trousers and a crisp white-collar shirt, stared at her in surprise.

"So what's it?" he asked quizzically, straddling her in the process. Hermione rolled her eyes in disgust. She was beginning to feel as if Draco hadn't even realized what he had just said.

"Your apology for treating me like complete scum for a month?" she grumbled. She could feel Draco's body slightly stiffen before he relaxed into her.

"You know that's not what I meant," he whispered before casually pushing up the worn wool of her sweater. He dismissively began to brush his lips against the skin of her abdomen. Hermione could feel her body stiffen again as she grabbed Draco by the collar. He looked up at her in surprise before resting his chin on her stomach, a slightly aggravated look on his face.

"Well then, tell me what you meant without telling me a cock-and-bull story of your _difficult _childhood," Hermione snapped scornfully. He remained silent. She propped herself up onto her elbows so she could look down at him. She noticed a strange glimmer in his eyes as his irked expression slowly melted into one of mild anger.

"Is anything ever fucking enough for you, Hermione?" he snapped irritably. She bit her lip as she fought the ever-rising fury from within. She knew she had angered him for he only addressed her by Hermione when he was irate and he rarely ever swore.

"You don't have to act like a git, Draco," Hermione retorted. Draco swiftly rose and turned to face her. "Why can't we just have a discussion like normal adults?"

"Why?" Draco repeated, the tone of his voice steadily rising. "Why? Why do you always have to be so dreary? Maybe I don't spend time with you just to hear you constantly nag me about every little bloody thing."

Hermione could feel all her logic go out the door at his comment. She flung her sweater down over her exposed stomach before speaking. "Then why _do_ you spend time with me if all I do is nag you?"

Draco's normally pale face flushed a vivid shade of scarlet. "I spend time with you because I _really _like you! Why don't you bloody understand that I'm doing the best I can? Nothing is never good enough for you!" he shouted. Hermione paused slightly as Draco's words sunk in. He had never uttered his feelings to her before. However, she didn't know how to take it for he often said things in the heat of anger just to arrive at the end of the argument quicker.

"Well if you like me as much as you claim you do, why is it so hard for you to tell yourself and everyone that you're seeing me?" Hermione shouted back, she could hardly make out Draco's image through her tears of frustration and rage. She was beginning to feel an intense loathing towards herself and that sickening yet pleasing feeling he gave her. The way his touch would make her heart skip a beat. An ugly force kept her coming back to him. All he ever did to her was hurt, why couldn't she just save herself and let go? Draco suddenly jumped to his feet and angrily grabbed his robes from off the floor.

"Because it's fucking complicated! You're not an heir to a fortune! People don't expect a bloody thing from you! You don't have your mother breathing down your neck and telling you whom to marry! Do you understand what I'm jeopardizing to be with you? If you can't bloody accept the fact that I'm trying so hard to change, than maybe this is all a bad fucking idea," Draco shouted.

Before Hermione could even catch herself, she felt a strange jab of pain in her stomach. It was if a strange inner voice took control over her. "You can't leave me," Hermione whispered, the words slipping like venom from her lips. Hermione winced as she realized what she said, but her upper mind was no longer in control. The inner force continued to overcome her as she uttered more words that are poisonous. "I need you right now…" her voice faltered as she struggled to stop herself but she couldn't. "I love you."

A blank expression overcame Draco's visage as he swiftly turned away from her. It was as if his fury was a raging fire; her words had quickly doused his flames. His eyes quickly averted to the moving picture of Harry, Ron, and her on her wardrobe. A growl escaped his lips as he snatched it up, a severe fury resonating in his steel gray eyes. He looked up at her and flashed her an equally scathing glare. "No you don't," he muttered, his words solid and heavy hitting. His eyes locked her in. Hermione felt like she suddenly forgotten how to speak. She struggled to swallow the lump in her throat as Draco continued to glare at the moving photograph. She clutched on to the sheets for dear life as he turned the frame around to face her. Hermione immediately turned away; she had been avoiding the photograph for months, for it caused her to long for her old life too badly.

Draco slowly sauntered over to the bed and sat down on the edge. "Come here," he muttered under his breath. His voice was still solid and stern. Hermione did not dare to ignore him. She slowly released the massed jumble of bed linens and crawled slowly on all fours towards the edge of the bed. She looked up at him, trying to desperately scan his face for any sign of emotion, but his face was still blank as he forced the frame into her hands. Hermione took it with a tremulous hand but still could not bear to glance down at it.

"You may not understand this, but I want you to look at that picture and listen to me, Granger," Draco admonished. Hermione hesitated momentarily before finally glancing down at the picture. She could feel her heart jump into her throat as she stared down at her smiling and waving likeness. The three of them couldn't have been a day over sixteen. They all had their arms around each other and their heads back in laughter. Hermione could feel herself suppress a smile as she glanced at Ron who had a carefree aura about him. Harry stood in between her and Ron. Tears stung her eyes as the frozen bright emerald eyes looked straight ahead and waved happily. He was completely unaware of their future love and his mundane death. Hermione sighed as the tears begin to pour freely down her cheeks. She almost had forgotten whom it was she truly loved. She realized the mist of grief and lust was blinding her and she had denied herself the well-deserved privilege of moving on.

"I know I may not be making very much sense to you right now, but there's a reason for this. There is a reason for everything in life. There's even a reason in death," Draco's voice faltered as Hermione turned to look at him, small sobs beginning to overcome her. His eyes fell from her as he continued, "I took you out tonight to Paris tonight to break this off."

Draco's words were like a slap to a face as everything began to register with her. Hermione continue to cry, but for what reason she remained unsure of. Draco seemed to have taken her silence as permission to explain himself.

"I'm just walking around in life with this feeling that everything is rushing past me. I mean, I'm already twenty-seven years old, and what do I have to show for my life? Of course, there's my job at the Prophet. A job where everyone pretends to like me because they don't want to be fired. Then there's that superficial roller coaster of a relationship that I just can't end. Of course, there's my father in prison. Then there's my mother living in the past, because she knows there is no future for her. You don't deserve to be dragged into this…" his voice faltered. 'This _thing_, this _monster_, I call my life. " Draco fell silent as Hermione continued to cry. The more he said, the harder she cried, rendering her incapable of speech.

"Hermione, I need you to listen to me and listen to me hard," Draco whispered as he placed two trembling hands on her sopping wet cheeks. Hermione looked up into those deep gray pools. She felt a temporary deep resentment towards him and those eyes at that exact moment. All they ever seemed to cause was trouble. All Draco Malfoy did to her was hurt her. Hermione bit her lip as Draco drew his face closer to hers. The strange voice that had taken over Hermione only seconds earlier appeared to take over Draco when he spoke.

"_I'm not him,_" he said in a harsh whisper. His words were a dagger to her heart. He had said what her heart had been denying ever since Draco and her shared their first kiss. Harry was gone and Draco could never live up to him for he just wasn't Harry. Draco pulled her into a slightly stiff embrace. Hermione was sure it was surely their last. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek. He brushed his lips across her flushed cheeks, much like he did on their first night together, stopping the tear from falling.

As quickly as it began, her relationship, if you could even call it that, with Draco Malfoy was over. However, she was ignorant enough to believe that there wouldn't be any repercussions. One chapter in her life was over, and another was soon to begin.

**June 2009**

Hannah's screams jarred Hermione out of her daze. She quickly rose to her feet and peered into the crib where a crying Hannah lay. Hermione scooped the scarlet-faced blonde haired child into her arms before turning back to the rocking chair in the corner.

The child's sob's quieted then ceased as Hermione rocked her rhythmically back and forth. Her thoughts returned to her memory of her last night with Draco. Looking back on it, she always had regretted that it took her so long to realize Draco's intentions. If she had figured out his plans, she would have saved herself a world of hurt and frustration. Most importantly, she wouldn't have made her biggest mistake. She wouldn't have lied to and manipulated Ron.

However, Hermione knew she did what she had to do. She had survival on the mind, and she was afraid. Fear was an element in life, along with lust and grief that could drive a soul to _anything. _Nevertheless, when it finally dawned on her the consequences of her misgivings, it would all be too late.

**Author's Note**

Hi readers!

Sorry it has taken me so long to update but I've been writing very slowly, brainstorming on a novel (Squeals in excitement), summer reading for school, vacationing, working, cleaning, and all that mess. I understand that the waits are irritating but being that this mere chapter (It's fairly short in my terms) took me a MONTH to write, I'm afraid to put a length to how long it will take me to write Chapter Four. I'll play it by ear and hopefully I will have this up in a much shorter amount of time. Thank you for reading!

Alisha


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